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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633208">what baking can do</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis'>jublis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Osemanverse, Radio Silence - Alice Oseman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, Canon Character of Color, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Jewish Frances, M/M, Post-Canon, aled and frances are each other's impulse control, author is jewish but doesnt know jewish traditions outside latin america, daniel deserves an award for putting up with them, everyone from radio silence/heartstopper is at least mentioned, frances is an art major &amp; universe city is still ongoing!, make that a tag, the lightest angst possible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:02:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nevermind that Aled had never properly used an oven in his life. Nevermind that Frances said she’d never actually prepared büreks from scratch. Nevermind that the kitchen of their shared flat was not big enough for two fully grown people to share the space at the same time, which made everything a hundred times worse. Nevermind that he’d texted Dan to tell him what they were doing and Dan had explicitly said, “Are you fucking stupid? Have you ever done any cooking ever, in your life? Has Frances? If you burn down the flat, I will break up with you.”</p><p>Well, Aled thinks, looking around the kitchen once again. One relationship saved. They did not burn down the flat. </p><p> </p><p>Or, Aled and Frances don't know how to bake, but that doesn't stop them from trying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dae-Sung "Daniel" Jun/Aled Last, Frances Janvier &amp; Aled Last, only mentioned - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>what baking can do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm on a roll, apparently. oomf on twitter said i should write aled and frances baking and daniel being done with their shit, and so this came into being. title is from "what baking can do," from waitress, because i'm that original.</p><p>tell me what you think!! i hope y'all enjoy this :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This,” Frances says, “is completely and utterly your fault.”</p><p> </p><p>“How the hell is it my fault?” </p><p> </p><p>“Aled. I told you I did not know how to bake.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled shuffles uncomfortably. “So?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why the fuck,” she enunciates clearly, eyes closed and head tilted skywards, as if praying for patience. “Did you not stop me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh,” Aled says. “I’m your support system.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances throws her hands up. “That’s not what a support system means!” Aled opens his mouth, but Frances points the wooden spoon threateningly in his direction. “If you <em> dare </em>say that this isn’t that bad,” she says, “I will make you clean up the floor with your tongue.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled shuts up. The floor is <em> disgusting </em>. But to be fair, it isn't his fault. </p><p> </p><p>Okay, so maybe Frances mentioned how much she missed her mother’s <em> bürek </em> . And because Aled didn’t know what that was, he made her explain it in detail - apparently, it’s a Jewish dish, and it has potato in it, so honestly, whose fault <em> was </em>it? - and then innocently, suggested that they could try their hand at it.</p><p> </p><p>Nevermind that Aled had never properly used an oven in his life. Nevermind that Frances said she’d never actually prepared <em> büreks </em> from scratch. Nevermind that the kitchen of their shared flat was not big enough for two fully grown people to share the space at the same time, which made everything a hundred times worse. Nevermind that he’d texted Dan to tell him what they were doing and Dan had explicitly said, “Are you fucking stupid? Have you ever done any cooking ever, in your life? Has Frances? If you burn down the flat, I <em> will </em>break up with you.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Well </em> , Aled thinks, looking around the kitchen once again. <em> One relationship saved. </em> They did <em> not </em>burn down the flat. </p><p> </p><p>Frances sneezes, and flour forms a cloud around her head. There’s crusted dough on her chin, and her hair is finely covered in a layer of white, making her look much older than she actually is. She sneezes again, and Aled laughs, because she kind of sounds like a kitten. Then he promptly chokes and starts coughing, because the air is so saturated with flour it’s kind of impossible to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>Frances sits down at the kitchen table, which can hardly be called that, and puts her head on her hands. “How did we do this?” she asks to no one in particular. “There is mashed potato in my jumper.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled coughs once again for good measure, trying to breathe through his nose. “Yeah, me too.” The entire front of his yellowish green jumper has in some way or form come in contact with a bit of potato, and it’s almost artistic. Aled pokes at a particular lump, and it falls to the ground ever so slowly, as if it’s mocking him. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Frances says, and she sounds on the verge of tears. “<em>In</em> my jumper. Inside it. Inside my shirt. There’s mashed potato on my <em> boobs</em>, Aled. This is not what God wanted.”</p><p> </p><p>“What does God have to do with this?”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“We’re making Jewish food,” she says, pouting. “God has <em> everything </em>to do with this.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled pulls a chair and sits down across from her. The table, as everything else within a mile’s radio, is sprinkled with flour; there are pieces of unpeeled potatoes and actual peels of potato covering every inch of the kitchen counter, because they never seemed to get the amount right, and everything went to shit when Aled dropped their dough on the ground, and it kind of stuck to his socks in such a way that they had to actually use a knife to get all of it off, which should have been a sign that they were doing something wrong all along.</p><p> </p><p> Aled looks down at his feet and crinkles his nose. Those were good socks.</p><p> </p><p>Frances still hasn’t lifted her head up from her hands, and her breath sounds suspiciously ragged. Aled’s heart tightens. In all the years they’ve known each other, he has seen Frances cry exactly three times: at her graduation, when Aled surprised her by coming when he said he’d be busy; when her art teacher invited her to put up some of her work at her college’s end-of-year gallery; and when the Universe City YouTube channel reached a million subscribers. In hindsight, all of those were happy crying. Aled can deal with that. But sad crying? <em> Frances </em> crying because she’s <em> sad</em>? That sounds so inherently wrong he almost gets up and leaves.</p><p> </p><p>But no. He’s not leaving anymore. He won’t. He’d always been scared of growing roots before he was ready for it; the idea of going somewhere was always better than the idea of staying here, wherever here was. It took him months of therapy to realize why - because it wasn’t the where he was running away from. What’s that quote Charlie had prattled on about for weeks - “Wherever you go, you take yourself with you?” </p><p> </p><p>He’d been convinced he’d be happy if he could just uproot his entire life at a moment’s notice, to leave behind everything he had ever known and make something new from scratch, to be the child of his own leaving. But not anymore. Now he knows what it actually means to stay when it’s worth it. France and Daniel and Carys - no, <em>February</em>, beaming at him from the wings when he presented at Live!Video London; Charlie, Nick, Tao, Elle, Darcy and Tara. His friends. His <em> family </em>. He can stay for them.</p><p> </p><p>Aled nudges Frances’ shoulder hesitantly. “France,” he says quietly. “You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, but leans into his touch. “Yeah,” she says, choked up. “No. I don’t know. It’s just.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances takes a deep breath and blinks a few dozen times before continuing. Aled keeps his hand on her arm, and Frances eventually takes it and holds it between her own. “The <em> büreks</em>,” she says. “Mum and I always made it for special occasions, you know? Birthday nights, and celebrating good grades, and all that. I’ve never felt Jewish enough - people look at me and they think anything <em> but </em> Jewish, of course, nevermind I have a Jewish mother, and I had my Bat Mitzvah, and Jewish people aren’t inherently <em> white</em>, and.” She stops. Breathes again. “I don’t know. I think I’m a little bit homesick.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled nods. “Has it been a long time since you’ve talked to your Mum?”</p><p> </p><p>Frances laughs. “No, not really. We talk all the time. I’m just being ridiculous.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled bites his lip. Frances’ Mum is arguably one of the best people he knows. She’s an amazing mother, and she and Frances are attached at the hip. Thinking about that used to make something taste sour on the back of his throat - resentment and jealousy, all the things he would never say out loud. Because Frances deserved an amazing Mum. But why didn’t <em> he? </em></p><p> </p><p>But then Aled and Frances moved in together during Frances’ freshman year of college, and suddenly Ms. Janvier was texting him every week to ask how he was, or to send puns or cat memes she found on Facebook, and calling him on his birthday and inviting him to dinner. And the sour thing suddenly didn’t make his throat ache anymore.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not being ridiculous,” Aled says. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m nearly twenty,” Frances says, sounding miserable. Her eyes are red. </p><p> </p><p>Aled pokes her on the cheek. “There’s not an expire date on wanting to see your family,” he says. “Believe me. I would know.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “So cheesy,” she says, and laughs, and raises her hand to rub her eyes before changing her mind. “Feb would throttle you if she heard you spewing melodramatic shit like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Feb </em> would shut up,” Aled says, “because that’s what my therapist said when I told him I miss her all the time.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then tackles him in a hug so fierce both of them nearly topple over. “Look at you!” she says into his neck. “Casually mentioning therapy! Expressing your feelings in a healthy manner! God, I am so proud!”</p><p> </p><p>Aled blushes, but he smiles anyway. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Growth."</p><p> </p><p>She high-fives him. “Growth.”</p><p> </p><p>They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Frances even suggests putting on some music (she hasn’t stopped listening to <em> Wasteland, Baby! </em> by Hozier once since the album came out), but when she gets up to get her phone, she slips on a potato peel and nearly falls to the ground. Her mouth forms an O, almost comically.</p><p> </p><p>“The kitchen,” she whispers theatrically. “We <em> forgot </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Aled widens his eyes. “<em>Shit </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>They look around the kitchen once again. Every time he looks, Aled swears it looks worse.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Maybe we could start by-”</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck,” Daniel’s voice comes from outside the kitchen,  deadly calm. Aled tries not to flinch.</p><p> </p><p>His boyfriend is standing on the doorstep, still with his shoes on. When his eyes meet Aled’s, they narrow threateningly. Aled tries to make the most innocent expression that he can muster, and Frances must be trying to do the same, because she looks constipated.</p><p> </p><p>“Aled,” Daniel says. “Didn’t I specifically tell you to not do this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Aled says, “you told me to not burn down the flat. And we didn’t. So.”</p><p> </p><p>Daniel throws his hands up. <em> “That’s not where the bar is supposed to be!” </em> He kicks off his shoes and closes his door behind him, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it down on the beat up sofa. He stalks forward, arms crossed, looking at Frances with the same furious-yet-exasperated expression, which he wears around them quite a lot. “Frances,” he says, flatly, “why did you go along with this?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s my impulse control,” Frances says, gesturing between herself and Aled, “I’m his impulse control. We cancel each other out.”</p><p> </p><p>Daniel rubs his face. “Oh my God,” he says. “Did you at least end up baking the actual thing?”</p><p> </p><p>Aled shares a look with Frances. “Define <em> bake </em>,” he starts, but Daniel has already turned around and started to put his shoes back on.</p><p> </p><p>He drapes his jacket over his arm and glares at them. “I’m leaving,” he announces, as if it wasn’t obvious. “I’m going to do my work at the library. When I come back, this place has to be spotless, or I’m kicking you out.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances says, “You don’t even live here.” </p><p> </p><p>Daniel glares at her, and closes the door with a slam behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Frances raises an eyebrow. “Drama Queen,” she mutters.</p><p> </p><p>Aled sighs. “He’s hot when he’s angry.”</p><p> </p><p>Frances reaches into the pockets of her sweatpants and throws more flour at him. Aled cackles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi again! i had a lot of fun writing that. sorry if the posting seems a bit franctic; i *am* running on energy drinks. i love these characters. do expect something frances-centric soon.</p><p>as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. if you want, you can yell at me on twitter @bornfrombeauty!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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